LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter One

      Jennifer Mackane stretched leisurely, then snuggled deeper beneath the blankets on the bed with a sigh of contentment.

      She wasn’t scheduled to work today, or tonight, at Hamilton House, she mused, and would be able to spend the free hours with her precious Joey. They’d straighten up around the house and run errands, then indulge in dinner at Joey’s favorite fast-food restaurant.

      She’d have the luxury of tucking a fresh-from-his-bath Joey into bed that night and reading him a story as he drifted off to sleep. Bliss. Sweet bliss.

      A faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached Jennifer, and she knew the automatic timer on the machine had produced the hot, beckoning brew.

      No, she thought. She’d stay in bed a while longer, be sinfully lazy. Then again, the coffee smelled so deliciously tempting.

      “Oh, who am I kidding?” she said, laughing. “That coffee is calling my name.”

      She threw back the blankets and left the bed, poking her feet into enormous yellow slippers that boasted the head of a smiling Big Bird.

      Joey was so proud of those slippers he’d given her for Christmas last year, she mused. He’d gone shopping with his Uncle Brandon and Uncle Ben, the outing producing the bizarre slippers as Joey’s gift to his mom.

      Jennifer had shot dagger-filled looks at Brandon Hamilton and Ben Rizzoli when she’d opened her present, and had seen the merriment and mischief dancing in their dark eyes. But she’d become accustomed to the pair’s nonsense while the three of them had grown up together. Here in the pretty little town of Prescott, nestled high in the mountains a hundred miles above Phoenix, they’d enjoyed an idyllic childhood.

      Jennifer thudded her way toward the kitchen as she smoothed her red flannel nightshirt down to her knees. Big Bird’s heads bobbed up and down with each step she took.

      Joey would be checking to see that she was wearing these silly creations, she knew, despite the fact that it was nearly a year since he’d given them to her.

      In the large kitchen of the old, three-story Victorian house, Jennifer poured herself a mug of hot coffee, then opened the refrigerator to find the carton that would provide the splash of milk.

      She hesitated and frowned, her gaze falling on the bridal bouquet on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. She added milk to the coffee, retrieved the bouquet, then settled at the kitchen table, staring at the lovely flowers as she took her first sip.

      She could clearly recall the shock and dismay she’d registered when the bouquet had come sailing through the air at Megan and Ben’s wedding reception yesterday and somehow landed in her hands. She’d stared at it in wide-eyed horror, as the other women in the assembled group cheered for her, telling her she was now officially destined to be the next bride.

      “No way,” she had said, poking the flowers with one finger. “Not a chance.”

      She had planned to quietly slide the bouquet behind the stack of wedding gifts on the table at the reception and forget it. But Joey had been jumping up and down with excitement, declaring his mom to be a great pass catcher, just like whomever he had said caught the football from some quarterback he’d named. Joey had insisted on holding the touchdown bouquet all the way home.

      Jennifer got to her feet, went to one of the cupboards and rummaged through it until she found a vase. She filled it halfway with water, then returned to the table and began to carefully dismantle the bouquet, sticking the flowers into the water.

      They would now be just flowers in a vase, she decided, with no old wives’ tale connotations connected to them. Not that she actually believed in the whoever-caught-the-bouquet-is-the-next-bride theory, but why take unnecessary chances?

      She had no intention of remarrying, and having the bridal bouquet take up residence in her refrigerator even overnight was long enough, thank you very much.

      “There,” she said, admiring her work. “They’re flowers in a vase, nothing more. The spell is broken. End of story.”

      “Hi, Mom,” a sleepy Joey said, coming into the kitchen. He peered under the table at Jennifer’s feet.

      “Hello, sweetheart,” Jennifer said, her heart warming at the sight of her sleep-rumpled, five-year-old son in his Rugrats pajamas. “How’s my big boy this morning? Ready for some breakfast?”

      “Guess so.” Joey slid onto a chair opposite her, yawned, then frowned. “Whatcha do to the flowers you caught?”

      “They needed water to stay fresh so we could enjoy them,” Jennifer said.

      “Oh. Well, you still get to be the next bride like everyone said. Can you have a chocolate wedding cake if you want to when you’re the bride? Aunt Megan and Uncle Ben’s cake tasted kinda yucky. You should pick chocolate for yours.”

      “Sweetheart,” Jennifer said, “I’m not going to have a wedding cake because I’m not getting married.”

      “Yes, you are,” Joey said, his voice rising. “Everyone at the party said so after you caught the flowers. You’ll be a bride like Aunt Megan was and…well, first you gotta find somebody to be the groom guy, then I’ll have a daddy like Sammy. That’s how it works, Mom. It does.”

      Jennifer felt a chill sweep through her and tighten into a cold fist in her stomach.

      “Joey,” she said gently, praying her voice was steady, “you’ve never said you wanted a daddy. We’re a team, you and me, the two of us. We’re doing great together, don’t you think?”

      “Yeah, sure, Mom, but…” Joey shrugged. “It would be nice to have a daddy like Sammy does. They do men stuff together.”

      “Well, you do…men stuff with Uncle Ben and Uncle Brandon, and even Uncle Taylor when he comes up from Phoenix. They take you fishing, camping, hiking—all kinds of things.”

      “Yes, but…” Joey sighed.

      “But what, sweetheart?” Jennifer said, leaning toward him.

      “When I’m done doing men stuff with Uncle Ben, and Uncle Brandon, and Uncle Taylor, I have to give them back. I don’t get to keep them, Mom. I don’t have a daddy all the time like Sammy does.”

      “I see,” Jennifer said softly, struggling against threatening tears. “But you know that’s because your daddy is in heaven with the angels, Joey. I can’t change that, sweetheart.”

      “You could be a bride like you’re supposed to be ’cause you caught the flowers,” Joey said, nearly yelling. “All you need is a guy to wear a suit and tie and buy you a yellow ring like Uncle Ben got Aunt Megan. How come you won’t do that, Mom?”

      “Joey, I realize that you don’t understand and that you’re getting angry at me because you don’t. When you’re older, bigger, this will make sense to you.”

      Joey scowled and dropped his chin to his chest. “No, it won’t.”

      Jennifer stared at her son, her heart aching.

      She had known, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this discussion would take place one day, she thought miserably.

      When Joey was three years old, he’d

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